Sins of the Flesh (44 page)

Nellie stomped about the manicured garden seething with anger. Outdone! She'd been outdone, outmaneuvered, and outfoxed. Her stepfather had betrayed her. Philippe had betrayed her. Bebe and Jane…well, they were fighting for survival, so they didn't count. Technically, she was out in the cold, and it could either be temporary or permanent, depending on what she chose to do.

Right now her options were pretty dim, she decided. She didn't have a job, not that she needed one. Of course, she could still go to the studio and sit in Philippe's office. No one could stop her from doing that. But to what end? No one would listen to her.

On the other hand, she could…Her mind flashed to the calendar on her vanity and the red X that alerted her to the day her menstrual flow would start. She was in what her mother would have called her “dangerous days,” when she could conceivably get pregnant if she wanted to. But…a baby? The very thought repulsed her. Still
they
would have to view her differently. A baby would be an heir and a gilt-edged guarantee of comfort and security. Judges were always favorable to mothers and children. Lawyers, too, as well as bankers.

Her mind whirling, Nellie strode back into the house. The housekeeper was in the kitchen preparing lunch. Nellie looked at her out of the corner of her eye, then quietly made her way to her bedroom.

Upstairs, she checked the vanity calendar. Then, apparently satisfied with the feasibility of her plan, she sat down at her desk and addressed several envelopes with blank pieces of paper inside. The first was to her old home in Washington, D.C. The second bore the name of St. Margaret's Convent, also in Washington. When she'd finished, she carried the envelopes downstairs and into the kitchen.

“Minnie, I'd like you to go to the post office and mail these,” she said casually. “And I feel in the mood for some fresh fish. Will you go to the wharf and get some? And stop by the farmer's market and pick up some fresh fruit.”

“But, miss, I just went to the market yesterday,” the old woman complained. “We have plenty of fresh fruit.”

“Miss?
Mrs.,
Minnie. Always call me Mrs. Tarz. Yesterday the fruit was fresh; today it isn't. It's a beautiful day, I should think you'd be happy to get out of this stuffy house. Of course, if you don't want to go…”

Sighing, Minnie pulled off her apron. “Very well, Mrs. Tarz, but it will take some time. I'll have to take two different buses.”

“Take all the time you need, Minnie,” Nellie said with a wave of her hand. “I'm sorry I'm being so…so…poopish, but I think—mind you, this is just…intuition—I think I might be pregnant.”

The old woman, a grandmother of six, warmed immediately. “Mrs. Tarz, how wonderful! Of course, I understand these little cravings. Sometimes they come on at the very onset.”

The moment the housekeeper was out the door, Nellie rushed upstairs and stripped off her clothes. First she rubbed her entire body with baby oil, all the while admiring her lithe body in the long mirror on the door. Then she slipped into a belted cover-up and walked back downstairs and out to the pool, her long hair rippling behind her. She knew she was a picture of loveliness, a mermaid about to slither into the water—but not until the pool boy arrived. Smiling, she stretched out on a chaise longue to wait.

She didn't have to wait long. Five minutes later she sensed rather than saw him as he came up behind her. “I have to clean the pool,” he muttered.

“Oh, that's right, I forgot today is the day. You come every two weeks, don't you?”

He nodded, his ears pink. A big stumbling boy, tall for seventeen, he wore faded khaki shorts and a sleeveless shirt that displayed his muscular legs and arms to advantage. Nellie rose lazily to her feet. He wasn't bad looking, she decided. Blond and blue-eyed, possibly Polish.

“It's so beastly hot,” she said, smiling. “Would you mind terribly if I just took a quick swim? Better yet, why don't you join me. You're all sweaty, and the water will feel sooo good.”

“It's against the rules,” the boy mumbled.

“Oh, phooey. Rules are meant to be broken. You don't see your boss out here sweating. He'll never know. Besides, your clothes will dry in an hour.”

The boy hung back, clearly uncomfortable. After a moment Nellie shrugged. “Well, I'm certainly not going to beg you,” she said, and let the pool wrap slither down her oiled body. She heard him gasp as she dove into the pool. When she surfaced she laughed and crooked her finger, then swam quickly to the opposite side of the pool when the boy dived into the water.

She was a playful porpoise, he an attacking shark. Twice he almost had her in his grasp, but Nellie heaved herself backward into the water, swimming through his kicking legs. Suddenly she reached up and loosened his shorts, tugging until she had them in her hand. Then she swam to the top, the shorts clutched in her hands. “Come and get them!” she called as she crawled over the side of the pool. She stood there tall and slim, the water beading on her oiled body.

The pool boy's eyes blazed with desire as he swam across the pool. There was no sign of embarrassment when he too climbed from the pool, his penis ramrod straight. True, he'd never touched a girl before, but his older brother had told him what to do and how to do it. When he reached out for his shorts, Nellie relinquished them and he tossed them to the side. He was on her in a second, his hands caressing the oiled skin. Several times he tried to kiss her, but she kept turning away. She wouldn't let him kiss her, but she allowed him to touch her
all over.
Different girls liked different things, his brother had told him.

They were sprawled together on the spiky grass, a shapeless tangle of arms and legs. He took a second to register the fact that the girl's eyes were closed tightly as he pried her legs apart with his knee. And she was shivering, too—but no more than he was. When he thrust hard within her, she squealed once, and he realized with a shock that she was a virgin. But it was too late—he was powerless now to stop himself. He pumped his body in a frenzy, and when it was over he rolled onto the grass, his breathing harsh and labored.

Nellie grimaced. If
that
was all there was to it, she didn't care if she never had sex again. Rising, she slipped into her pool wrap and walked to the kitchen door, calling over her shoulder, “Don't forget to clean the pool.” The screen door slammed behind her. A moment later she was back outside. “What's your name?” she called.

“Stanley,” he replied.

The boy's name was not Stanley, it was Frank—Frank Wojesky. After Nellie left, he dressed, cleaned the pool, and drove straight downtown to enlist in the army. Lying about his age, he gave the enlistment officer his brother's name—Harry Wojesky—and was relieved when no one questioned him. One week later he left for boot camp.

Frank Wojesky left behind a legacy, a pregnant woman who gave birth nine months later. He died in Bataan, never knowing he'd fathered a child.

It was an austere room befitting the judge, who'd had no time to remove his long black robe. He settled himself behind his desk, which was covered with manila folders, a box of Havana cigars, and a telephone. The room reeked of jurisprudence, rich leather, furniture wax, aromatic cigar smoke, and the faint scent of Aqua Velva.

The open folder on Judge Malcolm Taylor's desk wasn't thick at all, in fact it held fewer than a dozen legal papers on which he'd based the decision he was about to render to the assembled lawyers and their clients.

Judge Taylor was a go-by-the-book, eye-for-an-eye judge on the brink of retirement. His colleagues and the attorneys who appeared before him referred to him as “Tight-Ass” Taylor, and that was the only halfway complimentary name among scores of others that had been given him. His sense of humor had long since surrendered to a resigned pragmatism, which only recently had degenerated to a resentful, caustic fatalism. For some time now he'd found himself hating all smart-aleck lawyers and their smart-aleck clients. He hated the fact that these same smart-aleck lawyers made twice as much money as he did and could retire anytime they wanted on the spoils of other people's misery.

In appearance Judge Taylor was as austere as the chamber in which he was now presiding. He was tall, well over six feet, with thick speckled gray hair that he wore cropped close to his head. His eyes were blue, faded now to the color of washed-out denim, and they never sparkled; they penetrated. His nose was exceptionally long, a beak actually, that sloped down and then curled under. Once, his clerk who was perturbed about something muttered under his breath that the judge's nose was like that of a chicken hawk. That clerk was still a member of his court, and every time he came within a foot of the man he sniffed and blew his nose. The clerk thought he had an allergy. The judge did—to him. He had no lips to speak of, perhaps because he sat for seven hours a day with his cheeks puffed out and his teeth clenched as silver-tongued lawyers defended the guilty and prosecuting attorneys damned the innocent.

All Malcolm Taylor wanted, had ever wanted, was to retire to Baja and fish from morning to night. He sighed now, wearily and indignantly, at the injustice of having had this particular case assigned to his court. Reuben Tarz was an acquaintance of his; he'd played poker with the man once or twice. And he'd even been on hand one time as a consultant when Tarz had filmed a courtroom scene in these very chambers.

Taylor cleared his throat and leaned forward. He hoped there wouldn't be any hysterics; he hated bawling women. “Ladies, Counselors, it is the verdict of this court that Mrs. Philip Tarz is in the right. This”—he waved Philippe's second power of attorney in the air disdainfully—“is not worth the paper it's written on. I'm basing this opinion on the fact that it has not been notarized and that young Mr. Tarz has gone off to fight for our country. However, I should point out that for the past three days I've had my clerk checking with the army as well as the navy, air force and Marine Corps, and we have not been able to affirm that Mr. Tarz
has
joined up. All of this leads me to believe there is some sort of hanky-panky going on. Therefore, in the best interests of Fairmont Studios, and in the absence of Philip Tarz, I must find for the studio. The studio will therefore be closed and all revenues placed in escrow until Philip Tarz returns. There will be no movies made at the studio, and only a skeleton crew is to be maintained.” With a loud bang, Judge Taylor brought his stamp down on his decree. “Good day, ladies, Counselors.”

“Your Honor,” Bebe's lawyer interjected, “what about the money the board voted for Mr. Tarz's television research?”

“Frozen, in escrow!” Taylor boomed. “You're dismissed, Counselor. That means all of you!” The court clerk scurried to open the door and usher everyone out into the corridor.

Bebe looked at Daniel with tears in her eyes. Jane took her arm. “It's not the end of the world, Bebe,” she said. “In a way I can't blame the judge. He's protecting the studio, and while he's doing that, Philippe—and Reuben—are automatically protected. We'll just go on as we planned, rent space and lease equipment elsewhere. Now we go to the banks and see what we can come up with.”

Daniel spoke up for the first time. “I have some money, quite a bit, as a matter of fact. Consider it yours. I just thought of something. I'm unemployed!”

“Aren't we all.” Bebe smiled tremulously.

“I had the feeling it was going to go like this, so I put the bite on Max,” Daniel went on. “He gave me enough to cover Philippe's research project and to take care of putting all studio personnel on half salary. If we need more, all we have to do is ask.” He chuckled. “It boggles my mind when people can write out a check for five or ten million dollars and not even blink.”

“It's a drop in the bucket, Daniel,” Jane said quietly. She tried for a cheerful note. “Well, we're going to need some kind of an office, a headquarters, so to speak. That's your job, Daniel. You are now officially employed with no salary. For now let's use Bebe's house as our office. Agreed?”

“Fine with me.” Bebe smiled. “I want to personally thank Max for his contribution. Daniel, did you explain what Philippe's research is about?”

“That was the clincher, not that I needed one. He told me if that was the kid's dream, he'd work his ass off to make it a reality, and said he wants one of those little boxes in his living room.”

By now they were at the courthouse door. Nellie's lawyer was holding the door open for her. She turned to face Bebe, her eyes sad, her lips trembling. “I'm pregnant,” she said. “You probably don't care, but I…I thought you had the right to know.” To Daniel she said, “I guess you'll be sort of a grandfather, too.”

She was through the door and halfway down the steps before the others could close their mouths.

“This has to be the quickest pregnancy in history.” Jane counted on her fingers, then grudgingly admitted that it was possible. “Never having been in that condition, I suppose one knows about these things almost immediately.”

Bebe didn't hear her; she was too busy trying to digest the fact that she was going to be a grandmother. Reuben would be a grandfather. Lord! “This…Nellie's news…it changes nothing. Daniel, if the court can't find Philippe…what does it mean? Where is he?”

Daniel shook his head. “I don't know. I called Fort Dix myself and got nowhere. If I had to guess, I'd say he enlisted under another name. But if that's the case, we may never find him.”

“Why would he do that?” Bebe demanded.

“To get away from the mistake he made with Nellie,” Jane said boldly.

“He said his marriage was never consummated,” Bebe mused, frowning. “We spoke of an annulment. Now Nellie is saying…Dammit, Daniel, he wasn't lying! I was there, I heard him.”

“With all due respect, Bebe, you hardly know the boy,” Daniel reminded her. “Look, I'm not taking sides here. I know you believe what you just said. But Nellie just announced her pregnancy, so that should tell us something.”

“Ever-loyal Daniel,” Bebe snapped. “Have you given any thought to the possibility that Nellie could have been pregnant before she tricked Philippe into marrying her? I for one plan to keep that foremost in my mind. You can think whatever you want. In the end the truth will win out.”

“Jane?” Daniel said quietly.

Jane sighed. “I'm afraid I agree with Bebe. Philippe wasn't lying. If Nellie is pregnant, she was that way before she married the boy. I'm sorry, Daniel, but I'm not going to budge one inch in my opinion of your daughter.”

“It's Nellie's intention to put us all into a flap, and we're doing just that,” Bebe said suddenly. “I suggest we forget Nellie and get on with the business of the day. Nellie has nothing to do with our project, so, speaking strictly for myself, I don't want to hear her name mentioned in my presence again.”

“Or mine,” said Jane.

“All right, ladies, I read you loud and clear,” Daniel said grimly.

Bebe smacked her hands together. “It's time to go to work.”

 

Nellie wandered around the house in a frenzy. She'd anticipated winning, but she hadn't been prepared to have the studio closed down. Now what was she supposed to do? Shop? Spend Philippe's money? Eat? Get fatter and fatter until the baby was born? She
was
pregnant, she could tell in subtle little ways. And if she needed hard-core proof, her calendar supplied it. She was now
late.
If she hadn't missed her period, she would never have had the nerve to make her announcement at the courthouse.

Somehow she'd been disappointed in everyone's reaction, especially Bebe's. If it hadn't been for Bebe's bland reaction to her news, she'd never have spoken directly to her stepfather; that had been a mistake. But Bebe's indifference had irritated her enough to court Daniel's reaction. Even there she'd seen nothing—no love, no joy, not even surprise. Jane, on the other hand, looked surprised enough for the three of them. But it wasn't your typical surprise, it was more like horror, or a shocked revulsion. Jane would immediately assume she'd become pregnant before marrying Philippe and would try to convince the others. Nellie laughed then, an unholy sound.

It was after, Jane. Afterafterafterafter.